


Winding Down

by willowbilly



Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: 12 Days of Carnivale, Christmas Eve, Established Relationship, F/M, Ficlet, Fluff, M/M, Multi, Polyamory, Sleepy Cuddles, implied/referenced drinking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-15
Updated: 2018-12-15
Packaged: 2019-09-19 16:48:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 638
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17005407
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/willowbilly/pseuds/willowbilly
Summary: James and Sophia return home after a night of Christmas caroling and momentarily pester a besotted Francis from his slumber.





	Winding Down

**Author's Note:**

> For the 12 Days of Carnivale prompt "naughty or nice."

Francis is awoken on Christmas Eve, or early Christmas morn, by his beloveds' considerate but thoroughly inebriated and therefore useless attempts at stealth as they return from their caroling and carousing. There is a lot of giggling, and stumbling, and incredibly loud whispering which is shushed just as loudly by the other in turn.

All of this Francis could have ignored. He is a heavy sleeper by nature and through dedicated practice, an attribute which is put to the test now that he sleeps three-to-a-bed with two snoring, fitful lovers most every night, the both of whom have sharp elbows and a penchant for selfishly hogging the blankets.

No, it is when Sophia and James tumble atop him almost fully dressed in their chilly clothes, liberally dusted with cold, wet flakes of melting snow, with frost in their hair and the spirits which Francis now habitually abstains from on their breath, that Francis must admit momentary defeat.

“For the love of God, you fiends,” he mumbles, grouchily tugging the covers up over his head to escape them. “I did not stay for a peaceful night in only to have you two bring the whole of winter back _with_ you, and _into_ our _bed.”_

“That's Lord's name in vain, Francis,” says Sophia, delighted. She slurs only a little but her joy far outmatches her articulation; she speaks as loudly as if she were still belting a carol at someone's doorstep. “On a holy day, no less! Mrs. Claus will surely pass you over.”

“Do you mean Mr. Claus?” James asks, muffled and unbearably nearby. He's fit himself against Francis' back and, with his extra height, has pressed his face into the blanket, right over the side of Francis' head. Francis can feel the long jut of James' nose in his ear and hear the contented surge of James' breathing. It prickles all the hairs on the back of his neck, even more so than the snow-water trickling from James' hair into his, but he cannot find it within his foolish heart to shove him away, nor Sophia, where she is curled against his front, tucked in precious against his chest.

“It is never the _men_ making lists of society's naughty and nice. Not for... for social occasions,” says Sophia. “Mark my words, Mrs. Claus has a say on every name the Mister writes.”

“Is it a social occasion?” asks James. “I'd think it more a duty. An official sort of thing.”

“It can be both,” Sophia announces gravely, after a long, introspective pause.

“There's no such thing as a Mr. or a Mrs. Claus,” Francis says. He's looking forward to rousing them before noon and gloating over being the chipper one in the morning for once as they nurse their hangovers. He's also already plotting to relay their folly in the most mocking of terms to the Blankys over Christmas dinner.

Odds are Thomas will take their side, but at least Francis will get him to laugh at them first, across the spread of roast duck and figgy pudding.

“You're no fun during the holidays, Francis,” James mumbles, clearly drifting into slumber. “But we love you for it.” And, through the blanket, he plants a kiss on Francis' cheek. Sophia laughs and snuggles closer, her head rolling, a bobby pin poking Francis' chin. He is half-glad that they cannot see how charmed he is by their ludicrousness.

In the morning he will tell them how charmed he was, anyway, because he cannot bear the thought of having survived to share his life with them only to repudiate any chance to profess to them his devotion, again and again, until the three of them grow old and fat and gray.

“I love you, too,” says Francis, and it is mere moments later that James is snoring directly into his ear.

 

 


End file.
